


Submission

by Azurite9925



Series: Devotion [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Attempted assassination, Light Angst, M/M, Post CF route but edelgard and byleth lost, Queen Claude Von Reigan, Romance, it's cute guys i pinkie promise just also not in the fun timeline, marriage proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azurite9925/pseuds/Azurite9925
Summary: "A lot had changed since Khalid had become Claude, 25 years ago.A year of comparably quiet bliss at the Officer’s Academy. A war, started by the Adrestians - by the former Adrestian Empire. A war, ended by an enraged and ruthless Tempest King. The Alliance, left torn asunder in the meantime—control wrested away from Claude von Reigan, who was forced to retreat, to cede power to the Faergans who came to their aid, and to leave, were he to protect himself and his reputation.A defeated prince, with no distinctions to his name, returned to Almyra.It was only natural to offer him to this new unstable ruler as sacrifice. A gesture of goodwill.Faergus… didn’t know what hit it."---A Post CF AU, where long time Queen Claude Von Reigan has one role - protect his husband as best as possible. And maybe, just maybe, find love in the process.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Devotion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848754
Comments: 5
Kudos: 67





	Submission

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just listen to classical music and fall in love with dimiclaude again. Here's the fic playlist - https://tinyurl.com/y5gv7y7d. A warm thank you to my beta, Tynytyg <3

“Are you ready, Claude?” 

Claude von Reigan turned to face his husband, the quiet haze of contemplation fading away as he nodded, squaring his shoulders back up, raising his head, his signature cocksure grin accentuating the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. It was genuine, this time.

“Always.” 

A chuckle. His husband’s hand came to rest gently upon the exposed small of Claude’s back, sending the faintest of shivers down the former Almyran prince’s spine. His husband’s hand was large—he was a larger man than Claude—and calloused by years of wielding the lance of his forefathers. They soothed Claude, the instincts from his homeland reminding him that a strong mate was a safe one—a good one, by their customs.

But this was Almyra no longer.

A lot had changed since Khalid had become Claude, 25 years ago.

A year of comparably quiet bliss at the Officer’s Academy. A war, started by the Adrestians - by the former Adrestian Empire. A war, ended by an enraged and ruthless Tempest King. The Alliance, left torn asunder in the meantime—control wrested away from Claude von Reigan, who was forced to retreat, to cede power to the Faergans who came to their aid, and to leave, were he to protect himself and his reputation.

A defeated prince, with no distinctions to his name, returned to Almyra. 

His mother’s seaglass eyes rested on his quiet form. His father did not meet his gaze. 

It was only natural to offer him to this new unstable ruler as sacrifice. A gesture of goodwill.

And so, Claude went, after his skin was scrubbed down with sandalwood paste and cleansed with rosewater. After his eyes were decorated with Kohl, his hands painted with henna, his wrists and ankles adorned with the finest gold bangles in the palace. After Claude learned to quiet the sharpness in his eyes, carry his new noserings with pride, and settle with the thought that Claude had his chance to prove himself a leader but had squandered it.

Faergus… didn’t know what hit it.

Whether best described by Sylvain’s sputter of absolute surprise at the council table, the flurries of rumors that started amongst the courtesans with the arrival of the foreign caravan, or the intense weight of Dimitri’s sapphire eyes upon his form—Faergus didn’t quite know what to do with one very Almyran Claude von Reigan.

Now, he was Queen Claude von Reigan. Evidence of Almyran goodwill towards a newly unified, newly open Fodlan. Trophy of the Tempest King, the most beautiful jewel in his court.

And yet.

“Now announcing: His Exalted, Holy Majesty, the King of Fodlan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, and his Queen, Claude Von Reigan!”

Dimitri’s hand did not leave the small of his back as he led Claude down the ballroom’s grand staircase, his steps still silent, a habit from warfare. Similarly, Claude made little sound as he moved within the constraints of his deep green ball gown, movements practiced and elegant over years and years of these sorts of events. 

The King and Queen stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment longer, their eyes combing over the room, before Dimitri raised his free hand and the applause and chatter died down, and they entered the crowd. Sapphire eyes met seaglass for just a moment, and then his hand moved away from Claude’s back—a silent permission, a silent request. 

Claude knew his role now, after 25 years. 

It wasn’t easy, at first.

The court didn’t know what to do when Dimitri flew into one of his rages. Weeks would pass where the Tempest King served as the stoic but just ruler of Fodlan, listening to others carefully and working tirelessly to improve the continent's government into a meritocracy. Weeks of diplomatic trips to foreign lands, in earnest desire to mend foreign relations. Weeks, where all Claude would do was read history, attend council meetings, and keep a careful eye on the movements of the nobility.

And then something would snap.

Dimitri would explode in anger at the smallest infraction, and then wouldn’t be seen in the palace for days. Sometimes, newly dead bodies would be found in street alleys of Fhirdiad—never the innocent, always criminals. Sometimes, Dimitri would be found sitting for hours in the chapel by Mercedes’s orphanage, refusing to move, mouth moving silently. Sometimes—the times that rattled Claude the most—absolutely nothing would happen, and after days of disappearance, Dimitri would show up in court looking perfectly whole.

And yet.

In those first few instances, Sylvain and Felix would try as they may to take up the mantle— _but_ _they are not princes_ , Claude’s mind would whisper. They were warriors. They were nobility. They were capable. But they were not princes. 

Claude spoke up, stepped in, and continued to do so, when his husband could not.

Few considered Claude a trophy, after that.

“Claude! Looking lovely as always, when am I finally going to get that dance?” Sylvain’s distinctive flirtation snapped Claude out of his thoughts, and the edges of Claude’s lips curled before he knew it. He turned to face the duo.

“Sylvain, not in front of the missus, that’s a little tasteless, even for you.” Claude teased. 

Sylvain grinned, “Oh, I have it coming, don’t worry.” The Margrave wrapped his arm around his husband’s waist, planting a kiss on his indigo-and-silver head, much to the other’s chagrin.

“Ignore this oaf.” Felix snipped, though without his customary venom. The indigo-haired man stepped forward, extending his hand, “A dance?”

“Of course, lead the way.” 

Sylvain snorted, but waved the two away, moving on to find Dimitri. Meanwhile, Felix took Claude’s hand, resting it on Felix’s shoulder, taking the leading role with ease. Claude easily fell into following, his steps sure and steady, eyes training on Felix’s own, even if the amber-eyed man refused to meet them. It was a routine, of sorts, for them to dance, and Claude never minded the swordsman’s proximity. 

Even now, when Felix leaned his head forward in a facsimile of intimacy, Claude took comfort in the man’s familiar scent of smoke and sword oil, and waited. “Any signs?” Felix asked.

Claude shook his head, “Nothing too odd.” Claude pursed his lips. “Still…”

Were he to flatter himself, Claude von Reigan would consider himself to be Dimitri’s Hubert—his spymaster, poisoner, and all around clean up crew. Claude, for now at least, simply prided himself on having a good set of spies and more vials of poison than he knew what to do with.

Thus, though he could not see the oddities, Claude knew that  _ something _ would happen tonight. His contacts, especially the ones he shared with Yuri, were very rarely wrong about assassination attempts. Claude continued to scan the ballroom, looking for any sort of clue.

“Hm.” Felix began, giving him a humorless smile, “I suppose it’s still a work night for us, then.”

Claude laughed, “You were expecting to get a break with these wolves?” 

Felix snorted, “Good point. Now do me a favor and talk to Gloucester before his preening starts a diplomatic incident.” He jerked his head towards one of the garden-facing balconies, where it appeared Lorenz was talking the ear off a poor diplomat from Brigid.

Claude sighed, “Duty calls.”

Indeed it did.

Perhaps the hardest part of becoming the queen of a united Fodlan was that Claude now had to face his former Golden Deer as what he truly was—Almyran, a runaway, and… a failure.

Hilda… didn’t speak with him, not until he personally flew over, handed her the invitation to his and Dimitri’s wedding, and begged for her to be his maid of honor. She had tried to look mad for a moment longer, but then caved, pulling Claude into a hug and then never ever letting go. Even now, Claude could see her chatting up Marianne, yet still meeting his gaze from across the room, and sending him a quick hello. 

The rest of the nobility didn’t quite follow in the same footsteps, however.

“Lorenz! Lovely to see you.” Claude cut into the conversation, placing himself between the purple haired noble and the poor diplomat. The diplomat shot him a grateful look before stuttering an excuse and leaving. Claude watched her go with barely disguised mirth. “I hope the roses are doing well?”

Lorenz arched a single perfectly purple eyebrow, “Quite.” 

Claude shook his head at the chilly tone—not that their relationship had been stellar to begin with. Still, 25 years and the man still held a grudge. Really, it wasn’t like Claude betrayed the Alliance to join the Empire. 

“Actually, I did want to ask about the roses.” Lorenz said, cocking his head. Claude’s smile turned slightly brittle, and he was about to make whatever excuses he could to leave, but something about Lorenz’s tone stopped him, “The flowers on the east balconies—why are they different, from the others?”

Claude blinked, “What?”   


Lorenz rolled his eyes, “Please. The uncultured eye wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a Duscurian, an Alliance, and an Almyran rose, but of course, I’m not stupid. The arch of roses before the east balcony may be the right color, but they’re clearly Almyran. If you ran short, we could have brought our own variety from the manor gardens.”

Claude glanced at the east balcony—at what were clearly roses, similar to the rest of the hall—and then back at Lorenz, nodding slowly, a shadow crossing over his face. Claude’s mind was whirling—after all, it was well known that the east balconies, the ones which faced the chapel, were the ones Dimitri favored during the night. 

“I… see. Well,” Claude’s gaze cleared, “I’ll be sure to speak with the florists about the issue.”

The purple haired noble waved his hand at the halfhearted response, turning his body away, “Pitiful. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

_ You’re excused to leave anytime _ , Claude wanted to say.

The Queen made his way to the eastern balconies, taking note to smile graciously and shake hands with the people who stopped him on his way. As he approached, he discreetly hid behind one of the major columns by the balcony and took a second look at the rose arch.

A detailed inspection revealed it for what it was—the wrong roses, just as Lorenz had said. Almyran roses, ever so slightly different from the ones grown in the Alliance, due to their thicker, darker stems, adapted for harsher climates. Claude pinched his lips at the thought of ever  _ telling _ Lorenz that his observation was perfectly accurate and likely very useful.

His eyes soon rested on the only figure in the balcony—the distinguished figure of his king, leaning against the railing, eyes staring faraway into the night. The cut of his suit was flattering, accentuating his already impressive shoulders and rendering his slender waist delectable. He wore a traditional fur robe atop it—partially out of respect to his forefathers, and partially, Claude knew, because they were damn comfortable. What Claude wouldn’t give to cozy up to Dimitri and sneak under the robe! It would certainly be, at the very least, rather warm...

He shook his head—now wasn’t the time. Claude went back to checking the premises. 

Seeing no sign of hidden assailants, he quietly approached the flower arch. His eyes rested on the intricate weaves connecting the stems—noted, how they were different, slightly simpler, as though it wasn’t the usual florist who made them. Claude pinched his lips. 

There seemed to be a faint discoloration in the flowers’ centers - Claude reached in, touching the edges, leaning forward to get a better look - 

“Fuck!” Claude jerked away, his head dizzied for a moment as he recognized the powder on his finger— _ hemlock powder, minimally ingested causes vertigo but at higher doses causes respiratory failure— _ leaning back against the wall and trying to collect back his thoughts.

“Claude?” Dimiri called, his husband’s exclamation alerting him to his presence.

The queen raised his hand to warn his husband away, shaking his head. He called for the nearest servant—a serving butler— “Code Green,”  _ Attempted assassination, no individual, requires cleanup.  _ Part of the code Claude taught all the castle servants, to ease the process _ , _ “I need Dedue in here, right now. Tell him the flowers are the issue and that the florist is compromised. And a napkin, if you would.” Claude cleaned the powder from his hands, frowning.

_ That was… perhaps the world’s worst assassination. Hemlock in the king’s balcony? What, were they hoping for a stray wind? Or… was it a warning? _

Even 25 years in, and people were unhappy. Perhaps it was naive of Claude, but he had hoped that with time and with peace, Fodlan noble life would be less dangerous than Almyran life - but that certainly hasn’t been the case. Assassination attempts, the occasional rowdy lord, the territories Felix marked “too dangerous to cross through” because of local sentiments against either the church or the crown, not that there was a difference between them anymore, were somewhat expected, in hindsight. 

And there were, of course, the very cryptic words  _ Those Who Slither In The Dark _ , from Hubert’s notes. Claude didn’t know what they referred to—wasn’t allowed access to all of the things confiscated from the Empire, but considering Yuri’s own suspicions when Claude asked… 

Well. There were many benefits to staying vigilant, even now.

Dimitri rested a hand on Claude’s shoulder, snapping the other man out of his thoughts, “Claude, what is it?”

Claude turned, a little wobbly on his feet, “Ah—do me a favor and um, if I can have your arm?” Claude asked sheepishly. Dimitri blinked, but immediately complied, carefully supporting the smaller man. “Thanks.”

“What was that? What is Code Green?” Dimitri asked, perplexed.

Claude waived his hands, sending Dimitri a reassuring smile, hoping to calm the other man down “Nothing to worry about, it’s taken care of. How about we find somewhere else to sit and talk for a bit?”

Dimitri’s face scrunched slightly, his eyes sharpening, “Claude.” He said warningly.

Claude sighed, nose wrinkling slightly. He didn’t like involving Dimitri in the rumor gathering, in the cleanup, in all of that, Dimitri was a man of action—if he couldn’t execute an order or execute a person in response to a situation, he simply didn’t quite know how to handle himself. “Well. I taught the servants a little bit of code speak to uh, better handle assassination attempts.”

Dimitri’s eyes widened, lips thinning and mind quickly coming to the conclusion Claude quite hoped he wouldn’t, “How… many assassination attempts do I not know about?”

“A few. The simple things—travel ambushes, poisonings, people breaking and entering—but!” Claude raised his hands in a placating gesture, “All the important things, I’ve got covered. You don’t need to worry about it, it’s my job to take care of you. Do you trust me?” 

Dimitri fell silent, his lip twitching. His eyes bore heavily into Claude’s, heavy and whirling with thoughts, and Claude hoped, hoped so dearly, that Dimitri’s silence was thoughtfulness, rather than the beginnings of another rage. 

“Yes. Of course I do.” Dimitri nodded slowly, his expression relaxing. “I understand, I appreciate your efforts.” Claude hummed, shifting against his husband, lids heavy. “And… let’s head somewhere private.” Dimitri chuckled, jostling his arm slightly so Claude would focus again.

“Hey! I’m alright.”

“Whatever you say. I suppose you’d like to go back to socializing, then?”

Claude snorted, “Oh no, we’re taking this excuse to avoid nobility bullshit.”

The walk was quiet, if not uneventful. To the untrained eye, Dimitri would almost seem at peace with his now near-routine assassination attempts, and he likely was, though Claude still noticed the unsteadiness in Dimitri’s arm, the tension in his shoulders, and the way his other hand figited his coat’s pocket. They made sure to approach Felix and Sylvain to take care of hosting duties for the evening, and departed.

They reached the gardens—the sprawling pride of the castle, filled with flowers and vegetables from a variety of territories—and approached their favorite pavilion, one by a pond. The two entered and then sat on the bench within, their thighs touching and bodies close as they watched they silently watched the deep night sky around them.

Claude, growing tired of the silence, cut to the heart of the matter. “What’s on your mind?”

Dimitri cleared his throat, eyes dropping to the hands in his lap. “I… must ask of you a weakness. A favor. I was going to wait until we retired but… now seems like a good time.” Somehow, though he was a war veteran, a king, and a hulking six foot monster of a man, Dimitri looked small at that moment.

Claude tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It must be awfully risque if you’re hesitant to even mention it to your own husband, Mitya.” Claude teased, resting one of his hands on Dimitri’s as a gesture of reassurance.

Oddly, Dimitri’s face flushed, his hands wrapping themselves around Claude’s offered hand. “Perhaps it is.” He squeezed Claude’s hand before standing and then kneeling on one knee.

Claude stared stupidly at his husband. “Dima?”   


“Claude - Let me, I…” the king sighed, running a hand through his hair before reaching into his robe pocket and pulling out a ring—silver, with a square emerald gem at the center. Simple, yet delicately made, a stark contrast to the gaudy piece of heritage jewelry Claude obtained upon his political marriage. “I wish to ask your hand in marriage.”

Claude couldn’t help but laugh, “Dimitri - we’re already married. I’m your queen.”

The king sighed, looking away, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And yet… we did not marry for love. You know this. I… have been in love with a ghost all these years, and relegating you to the role of a second in command, and a friend. Yet over these years, I have fallen for your intelligence, the way I can rely upon you to protect me, protect our kingdom. I’m blessed beyond words to have you by my side. You are what is most precious in my life”   


Claude’s smile trembled, and he looked away, cheeks burning. “Just my job, Dima.”

Two slender, pale fingers reached below his chin and nudged his gaze back towards Dimitri’s.“It’s more than that. So much more. You are… magnificent. And I wish, would you allow me to, to cherish you for the rest of my days.”

Claude felt a smile bloom across his face, the brightest star in the sky. “I- of course, Dimitri, of course. There’s no one I’d rather be with, than you.”

Because Claude would be lying, if he said that over the years he had not fallen for Dimitri in return. Fallen for the earnest honor in his every action, fallen for the sweetness underneath all the strength, fallen for the steady hand that rested against the small of his back. The one he would protect—and who would protect him in return. 

Claude wouldn’t work so hard for someone he had not loved.

Dimitri’s expression softens, and he slips the ring on Claude’s finger. Standing once more, he leans down and presses his lips to Claude’s—chaste, yet purposeful, a tremor of happiness belying the pool of joy within. Dimitri pulled away, gently resting his hand on Claude’s cheek and affectionately petting the top of his partner’s cheekbone with his thumb. 

“My beloved… I am yours as well, as long as I am able.”

Those were, to Claude, the sweetest words of all.


End file.
